Democratic Sentinel, Volume 3, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 May 1879 — ST. MARIE. [ARTICLE]

ST. MARIE.

I was engaged. I never could tell exactly how it came about. My betrothed was high-bred, beautiful, belonged to aristocratic circles, and declared by those who had become sufficiently acquainted with her intellectual development to be wonderfully intelligent. 1 had never become intimate enough with my lady to make any such discovery. My mother said it was my fault. Perhaps she was right. Marian Cathcart was her name; and although we had been engaged several months, and I had made a point of spending at least two evenings of each week in her society, I had never yet progressed beyond the formal Miss Marian; and she did not seem inclined to invite me to any less conventional platform. I used to wonder if, after we were married, I should simply change the Miss to Mrs., and Mrs. Marian her through our matrimonial pilgrimage. My mother declared I had chosen wisely. I occasionally felt like suggesting that she should take all the credit to herself, for I certainly had had no .choice in the matter; but I argued that women must, of necessity, have more oppor unities for judging of the virtues of their own sex than we masculine bipeds, who half the time are not able to discriminate between false teeth and natural ivory, or sham hair and the original article. So I pinned my faith on my maternal parent’s stout sleeve ol judgment, closed both ey« s, took everything for granted, and “ went it blind.” I occasionally caught myself wondering if there really was such a thing in the world as love. From a boy I had been a great lover of sentiment and s entimental poetry—had formed an ideal of my future partner, as most boys and girls do, I fancy—believed that Love is the striving Of two spirits to be one, Sweetness lingering after sweetness, Want that thlrsteth for completeness, Planets twain decreed to be Each other’s dear necessity, Each from each its light deriving, Till they melt into a sun. I was quite sure that my spirit didn’t strive in her direction. My soul had no want that she could satisfy, and the prospect was that “planets twain ’’ we should remain—hadn’t the slightest intention of rhyming then—to the end of the chapter. It was respectable to marry. Old bachelors were held in almost as much odium by the public as old maids; and none of our family, on either side of the house, had ever been known to set aside the conventional custom of matrimony; and they had all married well, too —that is, in their own set, as far back as we could trace. Love was a “myth,” my mother declared—simply “a something to fascinate school-girls and college youths, but which disappeared when the years of discretion rolled around.” I was possessed of .£50,000; my affianced would have as much more when her father died; and so our financial future was assured. Sometimes, as I looked into the mirror, and surveyed the features which appeared as if there might be a soul behind them, I was tempted to some sort of understanding with myself; but family ties, society’s restrictions, and the absence of real, independent, manly brain, kept me in that narrow, contemptible groove of prejudice in which I had been born and reared. A few weeks before I had proposed, and been accepted, my lady mother engaged a new governess for my two young sisters, Minnie and Anna—the first 12, the second 14 years of age. The reader, judging by the majority of stories, will of course imagine, the moment this new individual is introduced to their notice, that the writer fell immediately in love, as is the general custom in such cases—but the reader is mistaken.

Marie de Vere (that was her name) was beautiful, talented and accomplished, and exceedingly attractive, on account of a womanly reticence which Was modest and captivating to the last degree. I had always admired shy women. Marian—excuse me, “ Miss Marian ” had no such beauty. She was as selfpossessed as a woman of 40, and as smooth as a frozen lake. It would have been singular had I not looked with feelings of pleasure upon the little woman who glided so gracefully through the house, attending to her duties with a thoughtfulness and patience which seemed to me almost angelic. I found myself calling her St. Marie. Rather a strange name for a woman; but it came as natural to my lips as “Sis ’ and “Dear,” when speaking to my sisters. Not that I ever called her so. By no means. We scarcely ever exchanged a word. Our governess (of French extraction) was my social inferior, and my mother never allowed any approach to intimacy, or conversation even, with such members of her household. The first time I ever had the pleasure of a chat with the dear little creature I shall never forget. It was a bitter cold evening, and my mother and sisters were out. When I entered the library, after dinner, Miss de Vere was sitting at the table, writing. “Do not let me disturb you,” I entreated, as she commenced to gather up her papers, in order to depart. “I can write in my own room as well,” she replied. “Only it is a little warmer here.” Very well, then,” I made answer, “you must remain. If you consider it absolutely essential for one of us to leave, I will depart immediately.” The little lady turned upon me the full light of her beaming eyes, while an expression of fearlessness and determination dimmed the shy look for a moment, and replied, “ One of us must leave! That you know, sir! And the reason for such necessity you also understand. If you prefer your own room, I will remain here. If not, the library is at your service!” The reader will agree with me, I think, that this was decidedly cool. There she stood, her pale face a little

flushed, a bundle of paper in one hand, and her great brown eyes fixed inquiringly upon my countenance. I resolved to make one more attempt to detain her. “As you will, Miss de Vere,” I replied. “But I am aka loss to understand why, when, without flattering myself, I trust, I think we shall be mutually pleased with an evening together in the library, we may not enjoy it like sensible folks. lam lonely, and desire —yes, really need entertainment, and of a kind not to be had from books. You are tired with your school-room duties, and should have change and recreation. Please be seated, and let’s converse a whil like Christians.” She evidently did not hear the last of the sentence. Her eyes took on a far-away, wistful look, and tears —I could plainly distinguish the little pearly drops—trembled on the fringed lids. For a moment she stood, silent and wistful, then turned away with a simple “Good night, Mr. Sinclair.” I would have detained her even then, but she closed the door, and, in a moment after, I heard her light step upon the stairs. “An extremely pleasant position fora social man,” I said to myself. “ What sin has this beautiful and intellectual woman committed against society, that she is not entitled to its full privileges?” And when my mother entered the library, dignified and urbane as usual, just a least bit enthusiastic over the brilliant assembly she had just left, I was deep in the question of woman’s rights, and had decided that, whatever the risks, whether socially and politically ostracized, I would direct my energies toward the total demolishing of all conventionalism, which prevented a decent man’s enjoyment. There was nothing selfish, of course, in this view of the case. “What do you imagine, mother, to be the reason,” I asked of this august individual, as she stood warming her feet at the grate, “that I could not persuade Miss de Vere to spend the evening with me in the library ? She ran away like a frightened fawn.” “Do you mean to insinuate, Frank, that you extended an invitation to Miss de Vere to that effect?” inquired my mother, looking straight into my eyes with her keen black ones. “Insinuate! No, mother. But I distinctly declare that I did extend an invitation of thatcharactertoMiss de Vere, which invitation she declined.” “Which distinctly .proved that the governess had a more correct idea of propriety than a gentleman, born and bred, whose education has been conducted with the strictest regard to the demands of society. This only adds another proof of Miss de Vere’s fitness for the position, and furnishes the first testimony ever received es my son’s unfitness for the company of his equals and superiors.” And my mother, without another word, sailed majestically from the room. “Knocked my head against a rock! Might have known it!” was my inward ejaculation as the door closed between us. The next evening I spent with my betrothed. She was as cold, dignified and formal as ever. Some way I began to be dissatisfied with the manner of my reception. Strangely enough, I found myself unable longer to relish two hours on the same sofa with a woman who invariably withdrew her hand from my clasp as soon as it was taken, and insisted that a kiss upon the cheek at coming and going was all the caressing allowable between engaged parties. “Is this the way lovers usually behave, Miss Marian ? ” I ventured to inquire, after several ineffectual attempts to keep my arm around her waist. “I presume so,” was her reply, without the least heightening of color. “All well-bred and refined persons agree in regard to the requirements of propriety, I presume;” and then adroitly changed the conversation; but I was not to be driven from the new platform I had taken my stand upon by any such artifice. “And you are positive that all wellbred and refined persons, as you call them, are able to conjugate the verb amo, ‘to love,’ and thoroughly understand its moods and tenses; and that all engagements between well-bred and refined persons are founded upon love, are you? lam to judge from your behavior that you are deeply in love with the individual now addressing you? ” “I can, I think, refer you to some philosophical treatise on the subject, if you like,” was the reply of my lady. “But,” she continued. “I trust you will see the propriety of leaving the discussion of this extremely-disagreeable topic until some future time—after we are married, if you please. I scarcely think your mother would approve of such a conversation.” “Humph! probably not,” was my most ungallant reply. “But what business is it to her how I make love ?” It seemed to me that night, as I laid my head on the pillow, that my position was anything but an enviable one; and, to save my life, I could not help contrasting the cold and passionless face of Miss Marian, with the soul-full, earnest expression of the little girl I had named St. Marie. Moonlight flooded the apartment; but the rays were cheerless, and served only to remind me of the rigid, ice-cold, society-fettered woman I had just left. Sleep came at last—blessed relief! In dreams, the saint only was visible. Strange, how near she seemed to me I I heard her voice in every conceivable tone—now soft and melodious, now earnest and thrilling, now stern and commandingA dreadful weight pressed down upon my chest. I could hardly breathe. “Frank Sinclair!—Frank Sinclair!” rang out in terror-stricken tones, and with such a wealth of tenderness that I longed to open my arms and infold the saint; but I was powerless to stir hand or foot. 7 felt myself forcibly lifted from the pillow, and held in a sitting position. “Frank Sinclair, the house is on fire! Will you not awaken? For God’s sake, get up quickly! They are all out but you and I! The hall and rooms below are all in a blaze!” For a second I gazed at the rapt countenance, then commenced to realize the situation. The cries of the firemen, the hissing and sputtering of the flames, the earnest pleading of my saint, fell upon my ears with a strange commingling of emotions. Good Heavens! how I loved the little woman that moment, fraught though it was with danger, and perhaps death. “Do you not hear the terrible noise? We are bet if you do not make haste,” came again from the blanched lips. It was but the work of a moment to prepare myself for flight, and then cover the dear child, who for my sake had risked her own precious life, with a thick blanket snatched from the bed; and, more like a madman than the conventional member of society I had always considered myself, I rushed through the dense smoke, through the hissing flames-—down, down, almost suffocated, scorched, on fire, more dead than alive, into the open air with my burden, and then knew no more. I crme to my senses in a neighbor’s house, my mother and sisters weeping round me. Sitting by a table, her fair face resting on her hand, exhausted and grief-stricken, sat my darling. I tried to rise, but could not. "Marie— comi} jne; I want

yon!” I exclaimed, agonized at the thought of the poor child’s loneliness apd suffering. * . “What does he mean?” asked my mother, evidently supposing me bereft of my senses. “I mean my friend, my preserver, my saint Will you not come to me, Marie?” She crossed the apartment, and shyly advanced to my side, placed her hand in mine, and said, “Mr. Sinclair, I am so glad you are not dangerously injured. I feared that, in saving my life, you had sacrificed your own”—and the little one burst into tears. “St. Marie, it was you who kept me from destruction. Mother, sisters, servants—all left the house without one word of warning. You stood by me, and I believe would have still stood had I (ailed to awaken, and met death at my side. St. Marie, I believe I have always loved you.” “Let me examine his pulse,” interrupted my mother. “He is certainly raving.” “Not a bit of it, mother,” I replied, gaining strength by the opposition, and rising to my leet. “This may not be just the time and place to declare one’s love, in accordance to your strict ideas of social etiquette; but this night have I turned my back for. ever upon the heartlessness, vanity, and selfishness of your so-called refined society. Marie, I love you!” and, drawing the dear child to my side, defied the whole household. “Tell me you return this affection, and I shall be the happiest man on the face of the earth.” She made no answer, but allowed her head to remain whe: e I had placed it. That was answer enough. The next day, “Miss Marian” was apprized of the change of affairs. My mother has not yet become reconciled, but I have never had reason to regret the conflagration which disclosed to me the boundless love of St. Marie.